Academic Rigor

“Justin Fletcher?”

“Here.”

“Nicole Flynn?”

“Everyone just calls me Nikki.”

“All right, Nikki.” The teacher grinned, ear to ear, making creases on her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. She sat up straighter in her seat, situated behind a large solid desk, and made a note in her grade book. “Hmmm. Here’s a pretty name. Marigold?”

No one replied.

“Marigold? Is there a Marigold?” The teacher raised her eyes from the list of students to look out over the desks in the classroom. “Marigold? Going once…Going-“ A skinny girl in the back raised her lanky arm, leaned forward, clutched the triceps of her raised arm with the hand of the other and rested that elbow on her desk.

The teacher tilted her head slightly forward, puckered her lips in a comical sneer and peered over the lenses of her large spectacles. “Well, you must be our little flower, Marigold.” She clucked her tongue approvingly. “Is your daddy a gardener?”

“Marí!” The girl spoke forcefully, but her high voice didn’t carry the emphasis to the front of the room.

“I’m sorry, sweetie, what was that?” The teacher turned her head to one side and pushed her silver hair behind an ear.

“My name is not Marigold.”

“I know, dear. It’s so pretty. Do you have them in your yard?” The teacher smiled a big, toothy grin. “I’ve got a few of my own. It’s such a beautiful bed. And I have hyacinths, and some primroses, hmmmm, and-“

“My dad’s a mechanic. I am not a flower.” Marí’s voice began to quaver with indignation. “Would you stop calling me ‘Marigold!’” Her last word ended with a chirp, a sign of the rising tension she felt.

“Now, Marigold, I don’t think that’s the tone you should take with your teacher. We don’t want to start the year on the wrong foot, do we?” The teacher’s smile turned into a curt sneer. The wrinkles on her face, once a sign of wizened comfort for students, now glared oppressively from her forehead, the corners of her eyes, the corners of her mouth.

“I was named after a scientist-“

“Oh?! Is your daddy a botanist?” A smile flickered across the teacher’s face for moment.

“My mother is the science dean at the university. I was named after the woman who discovered radioactivity.” Marí slumped in her chair, folded her arms across her chest. She swiped her thumb and index finger along the bottoms of her eyes, hoping to find no moisture there.

“But, dear,” the teacher set her grade book down and folded her hands together primly in front of her, “it was Madame Curie that discovered radioactivity.” A prig, little smirk sat on her lips. “I believe her name was Marie.” The teacher exhaled a self-satisfied sigh.

“My name is Marí!” Marí threw her hands up in frustration.

“Oh! I see. You prefer to be called Marie.” The teacher unclasped her hands, picked up her pencil, and was about to jot in her grade book, but Marí yelled,

“NO!”

The teacher let her book fall to the table. She dropped her pencil next to it. She put her hands on her desk as if she were about to stand up and plastered her face with an upturned moue.

“No, I don’t prefer Marie. My name is Marí. My last name is Gold. My father is a mechanic and I am not a flower!” Marí grabbed the edges of her desk as she finished speaking. Her jaw was set and she was trembling.

“Okay, okay. I can see we’re all a little upset right now.” The teacher spoke through a forced smile. She picked up her pencil and made a lengthy note in her grade book. “So, Miss Gold, first name Marí. Is that correct?”

Marí nodded once, twice, then folded her arms on her desk. She rested her face on the cool, wood veneer. And, slowly, slowly calmed her breathing.

“Well, let’s get back to it, then.” The teacher straightened her grade book in front of her. “Charles Hough?”

“I go by Charlie, ma’am.”

“Well, sure, Charlie.” The teacher made a quick note in her book, then, looked at the next name. “My, here’s another pretty name. Iris Karns?”

“Here.”

“Iris? Like the flower? Is your dad a florist?”

“My mother is an optometrist.”